Magna Dea
by Laurie M
Summary: After 'Bloody Harlan', Boyd's reflections on Ava  and her slippers .


_**Disclaimer: **Justified _ain't mine. Sadly. Comments welcome.

_**Author Note:**_This was written for **norgbelulah**'s excellent _Summer In Harlan _fic meme at LiveJournal. The prompt for this story, from **Red Molly**, was: Boyd, Ava's fuzzy house slippers.

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><p><em><strong>Magna Dea<strong>_

She has small feet. High arches, delicate bones. He knew this already but he is reminded of it again when he pulls the covers she had kicked off back over her. He's already checked her temperature but he checks it again (_again_), the palm of his hand gentle against her forehead. She is warm, but not feverish. She should be kept cool but he doesn't want her getting cold.

She stirs slightly as he settles the covers over her, legs moving, then she stills and sleeps.

A pair of her shoes lie on the floor and he stoops, picks them up, marvels for a moment at how light they are, how small they are. Bright red, high-heeled. Her favourite pair. She carries herself differently when she wears them, back straighter, chin a little higher. They lengthen those already long, slender legs of hers and he appreciates that as much as every other man in Harlan County. Every man who's ever laid eyes on her.

But they aren't his favourites.

Outside, in her red high-heels, she's the Ava that everyone sees. When she gets home and eases them off there's a look of relief -much as she loves them- that chases across her face, she wriggles her toes, bones sliding under the skin, then slides her feet into her house-slippers. And then she is the real Ava. His Ava.

She'll sit out on the porch, wrapped in an oversized cardigan of appalling design, hands around a mug of coffee and he'll watch the way one slipper dangles off the tips of her toes, swaying in the air as she swings her foot.

The slippers are also on the floor, by the bed, and he picks them up. There's a hole in one, the towelling worn through. He puts them in the closet next to her shoes. She won't be needing them for a few days at least and he's determined that this time she'll stay where she's put and is aware of the insanity in thinking that hiding her slippers will keep her where she's supposed to be. But he'd be the first to admit that a man will do crazy things for a woman and also the first to admit that this is probably a different kind of crazy.

He sits in the chair by the bed. There's a book on his knee that he hasn't opened on any night before this and still doesn't open now. He watches her sleep. And for the first time he doesn't think about the hole that Dickie's bullet has ripped through her but instead thinks, without cessation, about the hole in her slipper.

At the store he stocks up on chicken soup, remembering it as the thing his mama would pour into them at the first sign of illness or weakness. He changes her dressings and she's awake, mainly, for that and looks up at him with big shadowed eyes and tight lines running through her face and-

'Boyd-'

'Don't, baby. Rest.'

For a little while longer he wants to hold onto the illusion that she is his and he is someone she might want. Just wanting her had turned into wanting her and wanting her to be unhurt, into wanting to be everything she wants. She had been generous enough to forgive him, to take him in, to take him, and her repayment had been the pain and blood he had sworn to himself he would never be the cause of.

He is not his brother, but this is worse.

Business, he tells himself, keeps him out of her way. Devil does everything he's told without question, panic still behind his eyes and when he builds himself up to it he asks after Ava, usually when he's already half-way out the door. Any doubts Johnny has are kept to himself and Boyd can't blame him for having them because they both know that Boyd will never tell him everything.

He's so successful at not being there when she can see him that it comes as a shock when he realises that she's stronger, that she isn't going to slip away quietly, that she will still be there next week, and next year, and ten years from now.

Back from Johnny's new place, back in the house, he hears movement from upstairs and finds her sitting on the edge of the bed frowning at a patch of floor.

'I can't find my slippers,' she complains.

'You're supposed to stay in bed.'

Her eyes flash. 'I ain't staying holed up in here. It's like a damn hospital room.'

He stays still then sighs then crosses to the closet and pulls out a pair of slippers. The frown deepens. 'They ain't mine.'

'Well, considering the state of the ones you had, I figured you could stand a new pair.'

Her eyes travel between the footwear and his face and her eyebrows rise slightly, lips parting but she says nothing. He kneels in front of her, taking one foot in his hand; the skin is smooth, translucent, tender. It feels so fragile, resting there in his palm. He eases on the slipper, puts her foot back on the floor and can't quite resist a glance at the long curve of her leg. There's a scar running across the top of one knee, a thin silver line. An old wound that has healed but still there when you look closely. Too many wounds, too many bruises. He thinks of all the things he has done and all the things he has failed to do and they all seem so simple now, all bound into this, all written into that jagged mark across her skin.

'I fell out a tree when I was ten,' she says, her voice soft. Her fingers twist into his hair and he closes his eyes, feeling the light pressure of her nails against his scalp. 'You planning on ever looking me in the eye again?'

He's aware that they must look faintly ridiculous in this pose, like a supplicant kneeling at the feet of the benevolent goddess. He doesn't care about that. He takes a moment and then makes himself look at her, look into the eyes he's been avoiding. She is grave and still frowning slightly and she shakes her head.

'You're a goddamn idiot,' she says, and slides forward, lowering herself to kneel with him on the hardwood floor, her arm going around his neck. Limbs twining together, she fits into him, head in the curve of his neck, her hair spilling over his shoulder. He runs his hands over the bright gold waves, breathes in her scent. Her breath is light, warm against his skin.

'Ava-'

Fingers against his lips. 'Don't, baby.' She murmurs it. He looks down and sees the faint upward curve of her lips. He holds her. She tilts her head up, catching his lips with hers, just like the first time. And just like the first time he drinks her in, savouring every part of her.

'I'm starving,' she says after a while, pushes herself up. 'I'm making eggs, if you're interested. Some bacon?' Head tilting to one side, voice musical and enticing. She stands in the doorway, framed in light and glowing. His golden goddess in an old plaid shirt and house-slippers.


End file.
